


most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs

by houselannister



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:46:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houselannister/pseuds/houselannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“As I was fucking her, Cersei cried, ‘I want.’ I thought that she meant me, but it was the Stark girl that she wanted, maimed or dead.” The things I do for love. “It was only by chance that Stark’s own men found the girl before me. If I had come on her first...”<br/>(Jaime Lannister, "A feast for crows")</p>
            </blockquote>





	most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs

**Author's Note:**

> {Written for the yescon_asoiaf kink meme.  
> Prompt: They have sex with Robert in the room.}
> 
> For my girl Ashley. Happy birthday!
> 
> The trigger warnings are to be taken extremely lightly. Especially the one for 'blood', I was just being extremely cautious.

It had been an ugly affair, the one with the wolves and the two Stark girls. Jaime had hoped for a quiet journey back to King’s Landing, especially after the accident with Bran Stark, back in Winterfell. Yet it seemed the gods had seen to it that it should not be so: he wondered now whether it could be that this was a warning, just like what happened in the Starks’ castle, that the Northeners should have stayed North instead of venturing South. Everyone knew snow melted in the South, during Summer, and regardless of what Eddard Stark’s ancestors had written on their banners, winter would not come anytime soon.

Of two girls, one was lost in the wilderness. He did not care much about Joffrey’s little scratches, but he was supposed to look after the safety of royal blood. A little girl was a small price to pay for such an offense. Cersei, however, had been of a different mind. Soon after Lannister and Stark men alike had stormed out of the Darry in search for the youngest of Lord Eddard Stark’s daughters, his sister had begun nagging Robert, asking for a strict punishment. It had been the wrong move, Jaime knew: Robert never cared much about his Queen’s desires, let alone when those desires went against Eddard Stark. The small justice the king was willing to offer Cersei had not appeased her in the least, and the more Jaime had glanced at his sister throughout the banquet, the more he could see she was frothing at the mouth.

Jaime had retired to the rooms that had been given to the Kingsguard, early in the night; he could not stand the somber faces around the long tables, his sister’s first and foremost. They were not that far from King’s Landing now, and he figured the sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he would wake up on the morrow and the sooner they would resume their journey home. _That is, if they find the girl, dead or alive._

And though home was a lax word for the Red Keep, it was better than anything he’d seen the past month, ever since they’d left for Winterfell.

When his sworn brothers returned to the bedchambers, they were chattering loudly. Jaime was awake, staring at the ceiling deep in thoughts of his sister’s wrath, and just how it seemed to somehow find its way inside his veins even from a distance.

“Our gracious Lord of Darry might find himself short a few cups, come the morrow,” Mandon Moore was saying. “I heard loud noises coming from the king’s bedchamber. The queen is not happy.”

“Mind your tongue, ser, ‘tis the queen you’re speaking of,” came the thundering warning from Barristan Selmy. The older man unbuckled the sword belt and placed the cold blade nearby his bed. Jaime watched the exchange silently, the flickering lights from the fireplace casting dancing shadows on the faces of his sworn brothers. Mandon Moore spoke no more, nor did any of the others. The Lord Commander unclasped the white cloak with skillful fingers, and Jaime always marveled at how little Selmy looked like himself without that cloak.

He wasn’t surprised by Moore’s words. Cersei had looked positively pugnacious throughout the evening; if anything, it had been a wonder how she’d kept from giving Robert a hard time in front of the whole party. Cersei was quick-tempered, but she had dignity. In her marriage, dignity had often been the only thing she could shield herself with, despite Robert’s persistent attacks on the walls of her pride.

“Ser Jaime.”

He had half expected it.

“Yes, ser.”

“The queen requests your presence,” Selmy explained, carefully unclasping what remained of his armor, the metal clanking every time he placed another piece down on the stone floor. “Ser Oakheart and Ser Blount are to watch the door this night, but I have given them instructions to announce you. I believe she doesn’t need a member of the Kingsguard right now,” he added quickly when Jaime stretched his arm out for his own sword. “She needs her brother.”

Jaime paused and chuckled.

“Do you not trust me with a sword in the king’s bedchamber?”

The bitterness in Jaime’s voice was laced in smug amusement.

“The queen is waiting, ser Jaime,” replied Selmy, looking the younger man straight in the eye. “Be on your way.”

 _Best not keep my sweet sister waiting then_ , he thought, standing up. _If you think someone’s likely to kill a king before the night is over, you are looking at the wrong Lannister, Selmy_. He left his sword where it was and headed out, all the while feeling Barristan Selmy’s glare burning through his clothes.

The king’s chambers were not that far away from those of the Kingsguard, but it was a walk long enough that Jaime had time to wonder what he would do if someone were to come after him, and how he could defend himself without his sword. He was strong enough, he supposed he had good chances at overcoming anyone in a fair fight; but were the attacker to be shielded and carry a sword, he would likely be dead before he had a chance to lunge. A man is only as good as the name he carries and the sword he wields. Sadly, his name would not protect him against the enemy’s blade.

Would the singers find some clever word to rhyme with Darry, when they sang the ballad of his demise? The more he thought about it, the less words came to mind. _Quarry_ , he thought. _The noble_ _Jaime Lannister, who died in a quarry_. A shitty ballad, indeed.

As he finally reached the quarters that had been generously offered to the royal family, Jaime took a moment to enjoy the stark differences between the two sentinels on each side of the tall door. One, Arys Oakheart, had a comely face maids would oft glance upon dreamily, while his companion stood more than just a few inches shorter and larger. Together, they painted an image worth more than a few giggles.

“Ser Jaime.” Arys Oakheart greeted him with a solemn nod. _He never liked me. I slayed a king._ “I’ll announce you.” Boros Blunt looked bored, with his hand resting lazily on the pommel of his sword. _This one will die in his sleep, and no one will notice he’s gone_. Arys Oakheart’s knuckles rapped firmly against the wood, met by the soft voice of a woman inquiring on who was knocking. “Ser Jaime Lannister,” Oakheart replied pompously, spelling each syllable.

“Let him through,” came the voice he recognized as his sister’s, stronger and raging like a storm.

The door opened to reveal a small girl dressed in silks, hair long and dark that reached down to her waist. He nodded to his sister’s handmaiden and all but strutted into the room. He glanced around, taking in how different the room was from the much smaller one that had been assigned to Jaime and his sworn brothers: it was still a far cry from the luxury of the Red Keep, but it was all the Lord of the Darry could offer to his King.

His sister stood by one of the bedposts, toying with the rings on her fingers; she sent the young girl away with a scathing look, and only spoke again when the door was safely shut and they were alone.

“It took you long enough.”

Jaime ignored that, deciding to focus on the king lying on the Myrish carpet. She sensed his attention faltering and glanced down, following his stare.

“Dead?” he japed, taking a step closer.

“If only,” Cersei snapped back, drawing away from the bed with long, angry strides, her skirt billowing as she moved like a lioness is a cage. “He kept drinking long after you left.” There was some contempt in her voice, and accusation for leaving her earlier that night. “I believe he won’t wake unless an army comes knocking at our gates.” She took off her rings, one by one, and Jaime did nothing but watch her and take in the shaking in her hands. She was a volcano threatening to erupt, but doing all in her power to keep it all inside. “I want the Stark girl to lose her hand. Or dead. I want you to ask for it as well, on the morrow, as a member of House Lannister.”

Jaime sighed and shook his head as his sister looked away, putting rings and whatnot away in a small box. She wore a light nightgown that did so very little to conceal her naked body underneath that Jaime wondered how Robert could ever think of anything else. He stepped over the King’s form and sat down on the mattress, bouncing softly, and he glanced at Robert, who only stirred and kept sleeping.

“Isn’t that too much, sister, even for you?” he asked.

Cersei spun around, her face screwed up, and he knew she would yell at him the same string of words she’d yelled at Robert. Upon seeing him on the bed, the _royal_ bed, her mouth fell open and she took a few quick steps towards him.

“Stand up immediately,” she hissed, keeping her voice down.

“Why?” he asked. Instead he slid further up the bed and placed his head on the pillow. Her pillow. He rolled on his side and propped his head on his hand, looking down at Robert, still passed out on the carpet. “He is more of a beast than a King,” he whispered. She tried to grab his shoulder, but he swatted her hand away, laughing. “What is it like to fuck him? Is he as hideous as he is when he sleeps?”

“Do not mock me, Jaime.”

The smile froze on his face, and he looked at her, the weight of her words heavy like a crown of thorns. Of course he hadn’t meant to mock her, Jaime had meant to mock Robert. But in doing so he’d been half too careless and half too arrogant.

“Stand up now,” she repeated once more, but once more he ignored her. “Stand up, Jaime. What if he wakes?”

“And what would he do, then? Fuck me?” he asked, his smile growing wider. “He would not find what he’s looking for between my legs.”

“He wouldn’t know the difference.”

He nodded silently.

“Do you want me to carry him to bed?”

“I want you to carry _me_ to bed.”

She looked at him then, reaching up to the neck of her robe and sliding it down her shoulders until it pooled around her feet. The fire in her eyes fought its way into Jaime’s heart, and he sat up hastily, reaching for his sister’s wrist and gripping it tightly. He pulled at her and kept her close, parting his legs to let her step in between them. Her smile was lustful and vengeful, and it reminded him of the one time she had asked much the same thing of him to shame Robert. He tugged at her wrist forcefully, kissing her when she stumbled against him.

“If he wakes, we’ll both be dead,” she whispered when he broke the kiss, and Jaime thought that yes, they would be.

“I have slain a King before,” he retorted, pressing his hands to the back of her thighs until she knelt over him, one leg on each side of him. Her hair tickled his face as she looked down.  “I’ll slay another if it will please you. They can have my head for all I care. Hand me a dagger and I’ll paint your lips red in his blood.”

His sister’s breath grew heavy, as if every word of his were water in the desert, and she a thirsty creature too long dry and desperate for a drop. He grabbed her ass unkindly, pressing her down against his groin and resting his forehead against her breasts and pressing his lips against the soft skin between her breasts. She began fumbling with the laces of his breeches, her fingers working nimbly.

She sank atop him without a second thought and moaned in her throat when he filled her completely. Her hands wove in his hair, pulling at it and grabbing fistful of those golden locks that mixed so well with hers. Cersei began rolling her hips against him, working him to a torturous height, on the edge of pleasure and pain and everything else in between that was just them, and always had been. His fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs every time she would slam down on him, the sound of it enough to fill the room but not to wake the King standing less than two feet away from them.

“I want…” Cersei whispered faintly in his ear, never halting her movements. “I want… Jaime, please.” She moaned and stumbled on her own words, incoherently and unaware of what she wanted herself.

 _She wants me_.

Jaime brought his hands up to her neck, then he cupped her face and pulled her lips to his once more, stifling his sister’s moans that could earn them both a sword to their necks.

“Jaime, I want…”

Her fingers held onto him for dear life, grabbing every inch of clothing she could get her hands on, pulling at it as she fastened her pace. His eyes snapped shut while she drew every last breath of life from his lips and his lungs, and his mind, mercilessly.

 _She wants everything_.

His sister could have asked him to bring her the severed hand of the little she-wolf, and he would have done so with his own teeth, if necessary.

That night he never learned what it was that his sister wanted. When he spent himself inside her, everything else was forgotten for too long a time, even the mighty drunk King that slept in that same room. And while everything drowned around him, Jaime breathed her in and smelt the sandy beaches of Lannisport.

He held her as she recovered from her climax, and he from his own. Their chests raised in sync, breathed all the same.

“If it is the Stark girl you want, I’ll bring her to you. Alive, dead, it matters naught to me.”

 _The things I do for love_.


End file.
